He was walking toward the door of the room where Slade had been. The shrewd crook followed the old man, and stopped by the door as Telford entered. The old man reached the desk, and swung around to see his pretended son at the door.
"Were you going to the city, Jim?" he asked.
"Yes, dad," replied Slade.
"Why don't you go now, then?" inquired Telford. "I can meet you at Rajah Brahman's meeting, to-night. I have work to do here, for a while."
"A good idea, dad," said Slade. "I'll see you then."
He hesitated momentarily as he saw Thomas Telford reach for the carafe. The old man filled the glass, and raised it to his lips. He walked over toward the door, and patted Slade on the back.
"See you later, Jim," he said, in an odd tone.
Slade turned and left the room. He threw a parting glance, and saw Telford, one hand on the door, the other holding the glass to his mouth. The old man was drinking the water.
Going upstairs, Slade began to scheme. He was figuring an alibi. He did not believe that any one had seen him here at the bungalow. The old man had dismissed the cab driver before Slade had come forward to help him with the bag.
Therefore, it could easily be proved that young James Telford was in New York all afternoon. Slade knew well how alibis could be arranged.
The liquid that Slade had poured into the glass was a strong, tasteless poison. Slade had used it on previous occasions.
There would be good reason for the investigators of Telford's death to suppose that Telford had been poisoned prior to his return to Long Island. The poison was a subtle one. Its action and its effects had been puzzling to investigators in the past.
Martin Slade had no qualms at all about the outcome. Too often had he resorted to such evil measures. Right now, he had a very simple course to follow. The old housekeeper had gone out. He could wait ten minutes — or fifteen. By that time, Thomas Telford would be dead. Then a visit to the room where the old man lay.
Slade could picture the body now, slumped on the floor, by the desk. He must make a get-away with the telltale glass, and that statement that Telford had prepared. Then all would be well. As for the future, Slade was sure that he could bluff it out as James Telford. He was a man of cool nerve — of persuasive speech that had often deceived the shrewdest detectives. He had taken a drastic step, but it had been necessary. By his deed, he had saved himself and his associates from exposure — exposure which would certainly have clipped the schemes of Rajah Brahman and his chief.
With brain working rapidly, Slade strolled downstairs at the end of ten minutes. He knew that this news would come as a bombshell to his associates, but it was the only way by which destruction could have been averted, Slade felt that he deserved congratulations for his prompt effort. He was at the door of the room. He opened it softly. He looked about, expecting to see the body of Thomas Telford. But the room was empty!
Slade stared, bewildered, toward the desk. There was the glass, half empty. Thomas Telford had drunk the poison and had left the house!
Slade cursed himself for having remained in the back room upstairs. He should have been on watch!
Then he smiled. He saw the typewritten paper still on the desk. If Telford had taken it with him, the situation would have been bad. But Telford had left it here. That meant sure success for Slade. Slade realized that the effects of the poison, while deadly, were slower with some persons than with others. As a result, Thomas Telford had survived longer than anticipated.
There was no telling where he might be now. On his way toward the station, perhaps. He might be lying beside the road, dead.
Whatever the case might be, Slade's course was to act quickly. He went to the desk and reached out for the paper first. At that moment he had an uncanny sensation of being watched.
He glanced nervously about the room. No one there. He braced himself. Perhaps it was this light — all from the single lamp on the desk. He would forget the passing worry in a moment, Slade decided. He picked up the paper and glanced at it.
It was not Telford's statement.
Slade stood completely stupefied.
The paper which he held bore this heading:
The Confession of Martin Slade.
Slade began to read, like a man in a dream. Here was a recounting of crimes that he had committed!
Who had learned these facts? Who had put this paper here?
Slade's hand was instinctively reaching toward his coat pocket, when a low laugh stopped the action. Glancing upward, Slade's eyes saw the end of the large bookcase.
A long, spreading shadow extended from that spot. It formed a blot of vengeance on the floor. Then came the form to which it belonged. A being in a black cloak, his features hidden by a broad-brimmed slouch hat, stepped toward the cringing crook.
"The Shadow!" Slade breathed.
Slade knew the identity of this avenging figure. Cowering, weakened in nerve and body, he tried to shrink away. But the eyes that burned from beneath the broad-brimmed hat held him transfixed.
"The Shadow!"
Again Slade uttered the dread name. The answer was a low, taunting laugh from unseen lips.
"Martin Slade," declared a solemn, whispered voice, "you must pay the penalty for your crimes. To-night, you sought to add another murder to your list."
Slade's fingers began to creep for his gun; but The Shadow's black-gloved hand brought an automatic into view. Slade made no further motion.
"To-night," said The Shadow, "your evil design was thwarted. Thomas Telford, the man you sought to kill, did not swallow that poisoned drink. I warned him, and he is safe. He stopped on the brink of death. He will be at the seance to-night. You will not be with him."
The stern voice paused, then resumed in an accusing tone:
"Thomas Telford has gone. I, The Shadow, am here in his stead. I have been watching. I have come to make you sign your confession — the document that will prove your evilness." A black-clad finger pointed to the paper on the table.
"Sign."
Slade did not move.
"Sign!"
The automatic was threatening. Slade, with trembling fingers, picked up the pen that lay beside the paper. He inscribed his name. The pen fell from his clutch as he looked up, like a frightened rat.
"You have signed your death warrant," declared The Shadow. "That paper shall bring you death. Death — Martin Slade!"
The grim picture of the electric chair arose in Slade's mind. Bold on the surface, he was a coward at heart.
The Shadow was approaching closer. His sinister whisper carried a tone that held the knell of doom.
"Death will come to you, Martin Slade! Death that you cannot escape. You will linger in the death cell, waiting — waiting — for your day of doom!"
Slade gasped; then, in madness, he reached for his revolver. His hand came swinging from his pocket. Then, as the man's weapon was moving upward, The Shadow discharged his automatic. Its bullet smashed against the revolver in Slade's hand. The crook's gun hurtled toward the wall. Slade was holding his numbed hand helplessly.
"Death," said The Shadow slowly. "Death by the chair — if you prefer to wait. Death now — by my hand, if you choose to struggle. Death — of your own design, if you wish it. Death that you designed for others should be good enough for you, Martin Slade!"
The crook understood. The glass on the table! The glass with its half quota of liquid that carried sure death! Slade shunned the thought.
Then, he caught the gleam in The Shadow's eyes. He saw the black finger resting on the trigger of the automatic.
Slade's game was ended. He must fight now, or yield. Bullets from The Shadow's automatic — bullets that might wound and leave him here, dying. The liquid in the glass — sure — positive.